


stuck in the mud (not a metaphor)

by asweetepilogue



Series: Geraskier Octoberfest 2020 [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, geralt is dramatic, it end up being kind of soft at the end because i'm incapable of not writing fluff, kind of a crack fic but i take myself too seriously, kind of comedic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:28:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asweetepilogue/pseuds/asweetepilogue
Summary: Geralt falls down a hole.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Octoberfest 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957933
Comments: 7
Kudos: 174





	stuck in the mud (not a metaphor)

**Author's Note:**

> for wherethewordsare on tumblr: "Geralt getting stuck in ice or mud or what have you and Jask has to get him out. Hilarity ensues."

Witchers were, typically, graceful creatures. They had to be; a single fumble could lead to claws in your back or teeth in your jugular. Geralt had trained for years to become smooth and quick and deadly, and the mutations had only helped that along. He was aware of himself in a way he assumed most humans were not. He occupied a certain amount of space, and was made all the more aware of his own body when people scuttled away from him. Geralt always knew where his feet were, how fast his hands were moving, where the next blow was going to land.

Which was why his current predicament was all the more degrading.

He’d gone out to clear out a nest of drowners, supposedly no more than ten in the area according to the town’s alderman. Geralt didn’t think it had been a lie, necessarily. What he’d found were drowned dead, the more vicious cousin to the drowner, and while there had been about ten near the nest he quickly found evidence of closer to twenty five in the area. The villagers had probably had encounters with only smaller groups at a time, making it more difficult for them to keep count. Geralt cut through the first batch easily enough, managing the crowd with _igni_ and a mouthful of thunderbolt to quicken his reflexes. After he’d blown up the nest, he’d spent the next two hours half hiking, half wading through the swampy area. Eastern Velen was an abysmal place to traverse any time of the year, but it was worst in spring after the melting snow made its way down from the mountains. It was still slightly chilly, the muck getting into Geralt’s boots and sticking to his feet. Fighting was treacherous, and he tried to rely on his signs more than usual to make up for the uneven footing. 

It wasn’t even the landscape that got him, not really. Just overconfidence - something Vesemir would box his ears for. Geralt had been fairly confident that he’d hunted down every drowner in the area. The forest around him was quiet, the waters of the nearby pools still except when a fish or bird breached the surface in either direction. The ground near him was soggy and viscous, but didn’t seem to be hiding anything threatening. There was a part of the ground to his left that sloped sharply down, disappearing into a kind of natural cavern where the soil had given way. He had questioned whether there could be a second nest hidden within, but dismissed the notion when he saw how slick and tall the walls were. There was no way a drowner could climb out of that.

Which was exactly when the last drowned dead hit him from behind. 

The only warning Geralt had was the sudden, furious hum of his medallion before he was spinning around to assess the danger. He was too late; the drowner was on top of him, its gnashing teeth inches from his face. Geralt brought his sword up to block and took a step back to solidify his stance, and his foot met open air instead of soft ground. 

The weight of the drowner pushed them both easily over and into the pit. Geralt reached out a hand and cast _quen_ on pure instinct, the shimmering golden field crackling to life around him just as he hit the bottom of the pit. 

Fortunately he probably hadn’t even needed the shield. As he let it fade around him, he realized that the ground was soft, exceedingly so. Mud from the swamp above had mixed in with water that filled the bottom of the pseudo-well, resulting in a soft mucky substance that clung to his limbs. Geralt pulled himself laboriously to his feet, fighting the mud all the way, and leaned over to plunge his sword into the drowner still clinging to life. The fall had done most of the work already. 

Job officially finished, Geralt took in his surroundings. The hole he was in was filled up to his lower thighs in water and muck, instantly drenching him. When he moved to inspect the walls, he found to his dismay that they were much too slick and unstable to climb. Anytime he tried to get a handful, it just slid through his fingers and plopped into the water below. Geralt tried for several minutes, using igni to try and solidify the mud in places, but it only cracked off in his hands. 

Finally he gave up, admitting defeat. He was going to die in a hole in _Velen_ , of all places, up to his neck in cold mud when he finally sat down in the shallow pool. 

At least he wouldn’t die of thirst. His fucking bones felt damp. 

Geralt wished he hadn’t left his bags with Jaskier at the inn. They would have weighed him down, but at least he’d have a damn rope. 

Fuck. Jaskier. He hoped the bard wouldn’t come looking for him. How long before he realized something had happened? Geralt had said he’d be back by nightfall, but sometimes jobs took longer than he thought. Jaskier might not grow suspicious until morning, or even several days. All the better, really, Geralt thought. The chance of Jaskier finding him was slim anyways, and by the time he got here Geralt might already be dead. 

The night passed slowly. Meditation could only do so much to block out his cold, wet surroundings. Finally he realized that it was starting to get lighter out, the first rays of the sun dappling the grayish leaves overhead with faint orange light. 

Two hours later he heard footsteps in the forest, and a moment later, he heard a bitten off curse that was achingly familiar. 

Geralt stumbled to his feet in the pool of water, squinting up at the five foot hole that marked the exit of the pit. “Jaskier?” he called. 

The footsteps stilled, and then broke into a more rapid pace. A moment later, Jaskier’s foppish brown hair and shockingly bright doublet came into focus. He frowned down at Geralt, as if it had been _Geralt’s_ idea to get stuck in a hole. “Geralt,” he said, “this may seem a silly question, but what are you doing down there?” He looked fine, clearly not beset upon by any marsh monsters, much to Geralt’s relief. The entire situation, which had seemed so distinctly unpleasant that night, suddenly seemed trivial. And then he remembered how he’d gotten into the hole. 

Feeling his ears tingle with a blush, he said, “I was hunting drowners.”

Jaskier was looking around, his hands doing something Geralt couldn’t see. Rooting through their bags, maybe. Hopefully for a rope. “Well, yes, I was aware of that. When you didn’t come back to the inn I asked the alderman if he’d seen you, and he said no, so I visited the healer, just in case you’d done that thing you do where you collapse on someone’s doorstep and they don’t know or care to fetch me, which you know I don’t care for, but she hadn’t seen you either. So I thought to myself, well, Jaskier, you’ve just got to go and see about it yourself, don’t you? I’ll have you know I’ve been walking around here since near daybreak, and my boots are ruined.” He made a triumphant sound, and Geralt blinked as a rope was flung down, nearly hitting him in the face. Jaskier’s face appeared back in view, pouting at him. “This is a horrible place, you know.”

“Free of drowners though,” Geralt replied. He took the rope in hand, preparing to make the slippery climb back up to relatively dry land. 

“I should hope so,” Jaskier agreed. “None of that answers the question, though, of why _exactly_ you are in a hole.”

Geralt grunted. “The ground is treacherous.”

Jaskier stared at him. “Geralt. Did you _fall?_ ”

Geralt glared at the rope wrapped around his hand and put his full weight on it, knowing that Jaskier was holding the other end. All he had to do was use it to anchor himself as he scaled the muddy wall, and he would be able to cuff Jaskier on the head for his gleefully disbelieving tone. All he had to do was get to the top.

Unfortunately, Jaskier chose that moment to break out into rachorous laughter, and instead of bracing himself for Geralt’s weight, he was jerked forward. Towards the open pit. His laugh cut off on a yelp.

Geralt managed to catch him, but only just. They fell back into the water together, a tangle of limbs and rope and mud. Jaskier’s doublet was instantly soaked, turning the burgundy material an unbecoming brown. Jaskier spluttered out of the water, pushing mud out of his eyes as he spit. Geralt’s hands roamed over his body, checking for injuries. The bard was nearly straddling him, sitting with one of Geralt’s thighs thrust between his own. The witcher let out a breath of relief when he found no sign of hurt, and then his eyes met Jaskier’s. 

Jaskier made a face, full of chagrin. “What was that about treacherous ground?”

Geralt couldn’t help it - he laughed, loud in the still of the morning air. Jaskier stared at him for a moment before he broke out into his own chuckles. It kept building between them until they were nearly rolling with it, Geralt huffing out laughter into Jaskier’s throat as the bard cackled in his ear. It was a nice sound, after hours of sitting in the dark thinking he was going to be left to die at the bottom of this godsforsaken hole. They might still, but at least Jaskier was here. Nothing seemed quite so serious when he was around. 

Jaskier pulled back, still grinning as he looked Geralt in the face. “I can’t believe you _fell_ ,” he said again, delight still coloring his tone. Geralt couldn’t find it in him to be mad about it when Jaskier was grinning at him like that. There was still mud all over him, slicking down his carefully styled hair and covering one of his cheeks like a strange troubadour mask. Geralt raised a hand and wiped some of it away, the negative of his fingers showing in brown streaks across Jaskier’s cheekbone. He liked the look of it, he decided. 

“Keep talking like that and I’ll leave you down here for the drowners,” he said, trying for gruff and knowing that he just barely missed annoyed, landing dangerously close to fond. He stood, pulling Jaskier to his feet as well. “At least you brought the rope down with you.”

Jaskeir smiled broadly at him, and Geralt rolled his eyes even as he smiled back. “Never let it be said that I don’t have my uses,” Jaskier replied. 

“Can’t think of any at the moment,” Geralt said, and was rewarded by Jaskier shoving him down into the muddy water at their feet. It was his second time falling that day, but this time, for some reason, he found he didn’t mind.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is part of my octoberfest series! I'll be posting a fic (hopefully) every day in october, though I am nearing midterm hours so I may not be able to hit every day. they'll be posted to tumblr first and I'll add them to this series as they come!
> 
> thanks for reading! my tumblr is [asweetprologue](asweetprologue.tumblr.com)


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